


A Toast of Midsomer

by AZombieWrites (EgorStandish)



Category: Midsomer Murders
Genre: AU, At least I think it's crack, Crack, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgorStandish/pseuds/AZombieWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DCI John Barnaby and DS Ben Jones are drawn into a world where murder doesn't exist. At least not until Meredith Bernstein was found dead in her front garden with a knife in her chest. With the help of a psychic, a chef and a battery operated toaster, Barnaby and Jones try to solve a case that may be the first of many.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimers:** A Bentley productions for ITV. Created and based on the books by Caroline Graham.
> 
>  **Author's Notes:** I had a short dream. Unfortunately, the muse was awake at the time and decided he wanted to write it, so blame him not me.

Not a pretty sight, the body beaten beyond recognition, the smell even worse. His stomach not happy, Detective Sergeant Ben Jones crouched down, a closer look, the foul odour growing in strength. Eyes watering, sinuses screaming, his gaze grazed over the body, searching for something, anything that would give them a clue. 

Something under the body, a scrap of paper. Reaching forward with glove-covered fingers, he gave it a tentative tug, the paper moving without tearing, coming away from beneath the body still intact. Small in size, the top edge torn, it matched the sized and width of the notebook on the victim’s desk. 

Jones stood up, knees cracking; he was getting old. Walked to the desk sitting beneath a large chequered window, compared the evidence. A possible match. The white paper was covered in blood, but there was something . . . He turned on the desk lamp, held the note paper over it . . . Dark ink broke through the blood staining the scrap of paper, the words easy to read, the light highlighting the text . . .

‘Gary Potter did it.’

A stroke of luck, something they needed, the day already sour. 

So . . . case solved. 

Just in time for lunch.

Except Barnaby would want to compare the hand writing to the victim’s. Determine if the words were an accusation or a confession, either way proof required. Another long day. The second death in two days, neither victim connected, death committed by two very different assailants. The job never boring, Jones sometimes grew tired of the violence; a cancer living in the midst of humanity, hidden within, most killers looked like the man or woman living next door. The knowledge of such an existence a heavy burden sometimes difficult to carry. 

Vertigo slapped him across the face, his world tilting. Balance shifting, Jones grabbed the edge of the desk, held his breath. The feeling passed, leaving a niggling doubt at the back of his mind. He shook it off, sure that it had been too long since he’d eaten, not enough sleep the night before. Releasing the air from his lungs, he took in a deep breath . . . a smell of burnt toast . . .

“Find something, Jones?”

Concentration so strong, Jones jerked with surprise, spun on his heels, fingers of his right hand still holding onto the edge of the desk. Embarrassed, he held up the piece of paper. “Yes, sir.”

Detective Chief Inspector John Barnaby stepped further into the room. A quick glance toward the body, his gaze snapping away to look at the piece of paper Jones held up toward him. Barnaby frowned, the words lowering his eyebrows, creases appearing across his forehead. 

“It was under the body, sir.”

Barnaby nodded. “Written before the attack. Premonition?”

“Didn’t do him much good,” said Jones, noting the disappointed expression on Barnaby’s face, quickly adding, “It looks like it came from the notebook on the desk.”

Another nod. “Handwriting?”

Jones turned to face the desk, a quick search. “Nothing on hand to compare it to.”

Barnaby turned back toward the body, moving closer. “They certainly did a number on him.”

A thought crossed Jones’s mind, a possible plot. Deciding to voice his idea, he said, “Sir . . .”

Barnaby looked back at Jones. Raised his eyebrows, a question asked. What?

“You don’t think there might be a chance that . . . well, the victim is Gary Potter?”

A short hum of acknowledgement. “We could be getting ahead of ourselves, Jones.”

Jones shuffled his feet. “Well, Gary Potter could have come here to kill his victim--”

“Did he bring a weapon with him?”

“Gary Potter could have come here to confront his potential victim. They argued. Got into it but Potter lost . . . badly.”

“Then why the note?” said Barnaby.

“There could be a hidden message in the . . . um, message.” 

Made sense to Jones.

“Such as?”

“Gary Potter brought it on himself,” said Jones, frowning, the smell of burnt toast returning. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

Jones shook his head, mind playing tricks, his stomach hungry, body in need of food. “Toast.”

“Having a stroke, Jones?”

Said in jest, but Jones wasn’t impressed. Barnaby’s humor could be very sharp, cutting in nature, taken the wrong way if you weren’t in the right mood; Jones wasn’t in the right mood. Face screwed up in lieu of a laugh, Jones said, “Is my face sagging on one side, sir?”

Ignoring his sergeant, Barnaby said, "No identification on the body then?”

“Not that Kate could find. He could be anybody.”

“Let’s assume he lives here,” said Barnaby. “What about photos? Anything that would put a name to the face. Or a face to the body.”

“Not much left of the face to indentify, sir.”

Ahh. There was that look. Jones nodded toward the doorway, held up the evidence. “I’ll just go find the SOCO’s. Give them this.”

“You do that, Jones. After they’ve photographed the evidence in its original position.”

Jones nodded and stepped away from the desk, the verbal slap down keeping his head low, his steps awkward. A second bout of vertigo, the dizziness overwhelming, the smell of toast so strong. With nothing to hold onto, his legs collapsed, his body falling toward the floor. The impact painful, back of his head bouncing off the floor, the scrap of paper fluttering against lax fingers. 

Bread toasting, the odor so familiar . . .

Face turning pale, Barnaby rushed to Jones’s side. Kneeling beside his sergeant, he placed his palm against Jones’s forehead. “Jones?”

His limbs heavy, a strong sensation, it felt as though something was pulling him across the floor; body immobile, not going anywhere, it created a nauseating feeling. Jones swallowed down the bile climbing his throat. 

A shift in direction, his body pulled inward, something turning him inside out. In the center of his being, a dull ache began, turning sharp. Jones blinked, looked up at his boss. There was a look of fear on Barnaby’s face. The man probably thought Jones was actually having a stroke.

The smell of fresh toast so strong . . . 

Barnaby lost his balance, hand falling away from Jones’s brow, arse hitting the floor. Arms failing, Barnaby began a search for his equilibrium. Couldn’t find it. He fell to the side, left shoulder against the floor.

His eyes wide with surprise, Jones could do nothing when Barnaby collapsed beside him. Darkness tugged at his vision, Jones fighting against it with everything he had. There must be something in the room, an odorless gas . . . a possible cause of death . . . only in the movies.

Eyelids too heavy to keep open, Jones closed his eyes . . .

.  
.  
.

. . . blinked them open.

Jones found himself in a different environment, an unfamiliar room. Sat in a chair in front of a long conference table, he was unsure of what had just happened. His gaze searched the room, finding the two men sitting on the other side of the table. They stared back at him, waited a moment and then spoke.

“Clyde Humphrey,” said the shorter of the two, hair shaved close to his skull, his face pale, his blue eyes holding a hint of surprise. He held a piece of toast in his right hand.

“Agnes Otis,” said the other man with a faint Scottish accent. Dark eyes, hair blond, his ears too large, his lips too thin, Agnes embraced a red toaster against his thick chest, a fresh slice of bread clutched within the toaster’s grasp. Taped to the side of the toaster . . . it looked like a fifteen-volt battery.

Clyde took a bite out of his toast, looked down. Frowned as he brushed the crumbs from his shirt . . .

Certain he had hit is head sometime in the last few seconds . . . no doubt when he fell . . . brain now damaged beyond repair. Fractured his skull. A possible subdural haematoma. Could be, he had died, soul thrown into another world to live in eternal confusion. Bloody typical.

Next to Jones, the air seemed to move. He blinked, the movement slow. John Barnaby now sat next to him, his face pale, eyes wide with surprise. Barnaby’s skin looked clammy, in shock no doubt. Sure, he looked the same, Jones looked away, back toward the two men across the table. 

“Agnes,” said Clyde, nodding toward the toaster.

“I’m a Michelin star chef for Christ sake,” said Agnes, fingers pressing the switch down, the bread disappearing into the toaster.

Okay, he’d gone barmy, lost his mind. Think! A dream. A more believable solution, no other probable cause or reason except, asleep or unconscious, he didn’t have the imagination to create something this complicated. Maybe it wasn’t his dream.

Compelled to ask, Jones turned his head, looked at his boss and said, “Is this a dream, sir?”

“If it is,” said Barnaby, “it’s your dream.”

“Why does it have to be mine?”

“Because, Jones, if it were my dream you wouldn’t be here.”

“Good point.”

It felt very surreal . . . 

A small pop, the lightly toasted bread jumping up before coming to a rest back in the toaster. Stuffing the remainder of the toast he had into his mouth, Clyde reached to the side, removed the toast from the toaster, took a small bite, smiling in appreciation.

“A well deserved Michelin star.”

“I should be cooking a four course meal, Clyde, not pieces of toast.”

“All for the common good, Agnes.”

“Common good my sodding arse.”

“Language, Agnes, we have guests.”

Agnes muttered something almost unrecognisable. Twisting his upper body, Agnes leaned over, disappearing from Jones’s sight. Like the toast, he popped back up, a fresh slice of bread in his hand. Resting the bread in the toaster, he looked back at Jones and smiled, the expression insincere. 

Completely off his rocker . . .

Jones looked down. His hands blue, he still wore the gloves he’d put on before he entered the crime scene. He pulled the gloves from his fingers, dropping them onto the table. Palms down, he could feel the wood beneath his touch. It felt real, cool against his heated flesh. A moment of insanity, Jones considered banging his head against the table, sure to wake up as a result, created headache worth it. If he didn’t wake up . . . knowing he would only embarrass himself, Jones changed his mind, pinching the skin between thumb and forefinger instead. Nothing happened, still asleep or unconscious, still dreaming.

Clyde took another bite of toast. Chewed. Swallowed. Frowned at the two detectives. “Inspector Barnaby, Sergeant Jones? Are you both all right? It’s just that you both look a little pale. I’m sure you’re not use to this sort of thing. First time for everything and all that. Not the first time for us though, is it, Agnes?” 

“Michelin star chef--”

“In fact,” said Clyde, “I think we’re becoming pretty proficient at it. Don’t you think, Agnes?”

Agnes grimaced, shifted in his seat, his body language showing his embarrassment . . . was that a touch of guilt . . . “The first time we tried, we blew them up, in this world and theirs. Very messy. Had to bring in the cleaners.”

Clyde smiled, the effort difficult. “We apologised.”

“Hard to apologise to dead people, Clyde.”

“Still, an apology is an apology.”

Barnaby leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. Jones watched in fascination as the expression of false stupidity grew and spread across Barnaby’s features. Clyde took another bite of toast. Voice confident, Barnaby said, “Pretty proficient at what?”

Not the question Jones had expected but the answer would explain a lot. He mirrored Barnaby’s position, waited for an explanation, not liking or believing what came next.

“Matter transference. We pulled you from your world into ours.”

He was in a script for Doctor Who.

“Why?”

Snapping his head to the side, Jones gave Barnaby a concerned look. His boss was buying into this crap, believing what this man was telling them. They were all barmy. He stood up, intent on walking away, out of the room and back into the real world. If there was a real world beyond the closed door . . . still asleep or unconscious. 

“To solve a murder of course,” said Clyde.

Another bite of toast.

“Is one of us dreaming?” said Barnaby.

Jones reached the door, pulled it open and stepped outside. This was not Midsomer. It looked like Midsomer but something wasn’t quite right . . . the light too harsh, the colors too dark. He looked back into the room, the three men watching him. Expression of stupidity gone, Barnaby now wore an expression that screamed ‘convinced’. 

Bloody hell. This wasn’t a dream. It was a bloody nightmare.

Clyde turned back to face Barnaby. “No. Neither of you are dreaming.” A bite of toast. Fingers brushing the crumbs from his shirt.

Jones stayed in the doorway.

“This is real?” said Barnaby, gaze settling back on the two men on the other side of the table.

“Yes.”

“Prove it.”

That was more like it. Jones rushed back to the table. Sat down, pulling his chair closer to the table.

Clyde spread his arms. “You’re here aren’t you?”

Agnes leaned forward, over the edge of the table. “Be grateful you didn’t explode. We could be feeding your remains to the local cows.”

Barnaby nodded, a slight upward tilt of his head. Jones could read Barnaby’s body language, Barnaby not entirely convinced that this was real.

“Do you really need convincing?” said Clyde. “Why can’t you just go with the flow? Pretend you’re dreaming. Think of it this way, your subconscious is trying to cope with something in your dream that’s happening in your life. Isn’t that what dreams are for? Aren’t they a way of coping with trauma or stressful events.”

Jones frowned. “What kind of stressful event or trauma would cause this kind of dream?”

“An inability to solve a murder?” said Agnes, staring at Jones.

Jones tried to look offended, found he couldn’t.

“You’re saying we’re here to solve a murder?” said Barnaby.

“Yes!” said Clyde, slapping his hand down on the table. 

Jones jumped in surprise.

“Not difficult to deduce,” said Agnes. “Clyde told you that earlier.”

“Why don’t you solve your own murder?”

Clyde looked at Agnes. Agnes looked at Clyde. Clyde took a bite of toast, nodded toward the toaster. Agnes swore then went through the process of toasting the slice of bread.

“We don’t know how to solve a murder.”

“Why not?” said Barnaby.

The toast popped. Shrugging, Clyde removed the toast, took a bite. Chewed and swallowed. “We’ve never had one before.”

Jones looked at Barnaby. “I’m not this imaginative, sir. This has to be your dream.”

“With you in it, Jones, it’s more like a nightmare.”

“Thank you for that, sir.”

“So,” said Barnaby, “all we have to do is solve the murder and we can go back home?”

“As long as we don’t blow you up sending you back,” said Clyde.

Barnaby leaned back in his chair, a look of contemplation on his features.

“You’re not buying this are you, sir?”

“Why not. Beats being bored while sleeping.”

“So we do like he said, just play along until whoever is dreaming wakes up?”

“It might fun.”

“I get enough fun when I’m awake.”

“No you don’t, Jones.”

“Again, thank you for that, sir.”

Another bite of toast. Another slice of bread placed into the toaster.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Jones asked, “What’s with all the toast.”

“I’m glad you asked,” said Clyde.

Agnes said, “I’m not.”

“The toast is a working conductor for transitory travel and stability,” said Clyde. “And to keep you here, I have to keep eating it.”

“Which is why I’m here,” said Agnes. “A chef with a Michelin star making toast. Anyone can make toast.”

“You know it has to be made by a chef with a Michelin star,” said Clyde.

“No, I don’t.”

“You should try it with butter. It tastes better,” said Jones.

Agnes, expression stoic, said, “That’s why the last lot blew up. Who was it we tried to get, Clyde?”

“A Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis and a Detective Sergeant James Hathaway, I believe.”

“Oh,” said Jones, familiar with the Oxford detectives. A promised made that when he did wake up, he would check on the condition of Lewis and Hathaway and if they were dead, killed in an explosion . . . he won’t be happy, then again, neither would Lewis and Hathaway.

“We decided to plead plausible deniability,” said Clyde.

“Based on the fact that we didn’t know they were going to blow up,” said Agnes.

A large bite of toast, stuffed into the side of his mouth. “Thankfully we worked out the kinks.”

Nodding in acceptance – what else could he do – Jones pointed toward Clyde. “You’ve got something in your teeth.”

Clyde turned toward Agnes, spread his lips, showing his teeth.

“Crumbs,” said Agnes.

“Damn crumbs. They’re a side effect of the . . .” He waved his hand and began wiping a finger across his teeth.

Barnaby smiled, a proud expression, and said, “Conductor used for transitory travel and stability.”

“Give the man a piece of toast, Agnes!”

“I’d rather not,” said Agnes.

“How did you choose us?” said Barnaby.

“Well, we chose--”

“Lewis and Hathaway first.”

“And we told you what happened to them.” Ate some more toast. Swallowed before starting up again. “I’m psychic. I saw you in my mind. I saw what you could do and what you’re capable of doing. And with the use of the transitory travel and stability conductor--”

Jones had a headache.

“--I brought you here.”

“If you’re psychic--”

“I am.”

“--why don’t you divine who killed your murder victim.”

“Yes, Clyde,” said Agnes, turning to face the psychic, “why don’t you use your psychic powers to deduce who the killer is.”

“Because it doesn’t work that way.” A bite of toast, an angry nod toward the toaster.

“It never does,” said Jones.

“Well then,” said Barnaby, slapping his hands together, eager to get on with it. “Shall we get started?”

“I’d rather not,” said Jones.

“Let’s start with the body,” said Barnaby, standing up, pushing his chair back, an expression of excitement on his face.

“Sir,” said Jones, standing and nodding toward a corner of the room. “Can I have a word?”

“You can have more than one, Jones.”

A frustrated release of breath, Jones moved to the corner. Hands on hips, he waited for Barnaby to join him. Barnaby, always polite excused himself from their present company and made his way over to his sergeant.

Jones didn’t hesitate. “You’re actually going to go along with this?”

“You’d rather sit here and wait.”

“Dreams don’t last, sir. This will be over soon enough. We don’t need to go wandering off to solve a crime in a world where crime doesn’t exist--”

“We have crime,” said Clyde, moving a little too close to Jones and Barnaby’s position. “It’s a murder we’ve never had. Fascinating.”

“Private conversation, Clyde,” said Agnes.

“Of course, Agnes” said Clyde, his position unchanged.

Jones turned his back to the room. “It’s insanity, sir.”

“It’s imagination, Jones--”

“Sir--”

“I have a degree in psychology, Jones. I know what I’m talking about. You’re having a dream--”

“This can’t be my dream.”

Barnaby sighed. “Just play along until one of us wakes up. It might be fun. Enjoy it. And take that as an order.”

Shoulders sagging, Jones said, “Sir.”

“Right then,” said Barnaby, showing Jones the way to the door. “After you . . . Toto.”

.  
.  
.

Meredith Bernstein lay in an elaborate coffin, silver handles on its side, with a soft, white, fluffy center. She wore a short sleeved, black buttoned dress, her short hair combed, her makeup heavy, her eyebrows manicured. She looked peaceful. She looked liked she was sleeping.

Jones stood back, arms crossed, refusing to take part. Childish he knew, but this was just . . . he was at a loss for words. If this was a dream, Barnaby’s or his, it seemed to have no end. A continual plot, no deviations, no forks in the road; just one long stretch of crazy. 

“This is your murder victim,” said Barnaby, upper body leaning over the edge of the coffin. 

Clyde and Angus stood on the other side. Clyde wore a smile, his interest in Barnaby’s method of investigation obvious. Agnes stood beside him, not as interested, a scowl on his face, gaze cast downward, watching as another slice of bread slowly toasted. Agnes looked like a man suffering from a terminal case of job dissatisfaction. Jones couldn’t blame him, he was beginning to feel that way himself . . . inside a dream. This was hell.

“Yes,” said Clyde. “Meredith Bernstein. Such a sweet thing. Liked to feed the pigeons with bread laced with a sedative. Her roast pigeon was to die for.”

“And die she did,” said Agnes without looking up.

Barnaby stood up, turned his upper body and gave Jones a look.

Jones, a decision made, said, “This is your dream, sir.”

“Right,” said Barnaby. “I’ve always had a dislike of pigeons.”

“You’ve obviously never tasted one,” said Clyde, biting down on his toast before wiping the crumbs from his shirt. “Damn crumbs.”

“A battery operated vacuum cleaner is what you need,” said Agnes, his words laced with sarcasm.

“Oh--”

“No,” said Agnes, offended that Clyde had taken him seriously.

“Meredith Bernstein,” said Barnaby. “What makes you think she was murdered?”

Clyde looked at Agnes.

Agnes held up his hands. “Sanitary environment. Must keep one’s hands clean at all times.”

“You’re only cooking toast--”

“I’m creating a conductor for transitory travel and stability.”

“Touché, Agnes,” said Clyde. “Touché”

Agnes smiled, nodded toward Meredith Bernstein. 

Jones shook his head, a look of disbelief on his face. Completely off their rockers. He turned away, looked out the window. The light still too sharp, the colors too dark. They had driven through a country village so similar to Midsomer Worthy . . . past villagers who looked familiar but he hadn’t been able to place them. Arriving at a funeral home, they had made their way inside and now . . . Jones contemplated the coffins. They looked comfortable, a way to pass the time while Barnaby played out his fantasies . . . if only his fantasies were more . . . He frowned, a contradiction invading his thoughts. He ignored it, his world crazy enough as it was he didn’t want to consider what had just crossed his mind. Jones turned back to the three men and Meredith Bernstein . . . 

Clyde reached into the coffin and tore open the top of Meredith’s dress, revealing more than Jones wanted to see. Barnaby, always the professional, saw only the fatal injury that sat in-between Meredith’s flat breasts. Curious, Jones stepped forward, right shoulder toward the coffin, took a closer look. The injury was at least two inches in length; a possible knife wound. He looked at her hands, her forearms . . . a lack of defensive wounds; a possibility she knew her killer.

“Knife?” said Barnaby.

“Yes,” said Clyde. “She was found lying in her front garden, surrounded by sleeping pigeons with a knife sticking out of her chest.”

Barnaby frowned. “You moved the body.”

“We couldn’t just leave her there.”

“Yes--”

“Not for three days. What would her neighbour think?”

“That she’d burnt the Sunday roast,” said Jones.

Barnaby gave Jones the look, turned back to Clyde and Agnes. “Bodies give off a very bad odor once they begin to decay.”

“A dead body smells like burnt pigeon?” said Clyde.

“Sarcasm, Clyde,” said Agnes.

“Oh.”

“Where’s the knife?” said Barnaby.

“Here,” said Clyde, leaning further into the coffin. With an apology to Meredith, he removed a long bladed knife; it had been resting in the coffin with her. 

“Ahh,” said Barnaby, an expression of disappointment. “Fingerprints?”

Please, do not do a Prince joke.

“Fingerprints?” said Clyde, the knife held in his right hand, fingers gripping the wooden handle.

“No point now,” said Barnaby.

“You’d think you’d know better, sir,” said Jones, a look of satisfaction.

“It may be your dream after all, Jones.”

“If it were my dream, sir, Meredith would be more endowed.”

The toaster popped. Clyde removed the toast. Agnes replaced it with a fresh slice of bread taken from a large, brown leather bag hanging by his side. Jones could feel a rumble of hunger roll through his stomach.

Barnaby nodded in acknowledgement, turned back to Clyde. “Do you have a pathologist? Someone to examine the body. Someone who can determine cause of death.”

“Cause of death? It’s obvious isn’t it?” said Agnes. “Someone put a knife through her chest.”

“Very obvious,” said Clyde.

Another glance at Jones.

“Not me, sir.”

“What’s our next move?” said Clyde.

“The scene of the crime,” said Barnaby, walking away.  
.  
.  
.

A pigeon lay in the middle of the front garden, breast sunken, its wings wilted, stomach bloated. Too much of a good thing, over indulging in the bird food Meredith had laid across her garden; grass lush and green, surrounded by flourishing rose bushes laid out in front of a small cottage. Jones could almost picture Meredith laying there instead of the bird, knife protruding from her chest . . . a terrifying sight for the person who found her body.

Jones stood with Clyde and Agnes on the driveway leading to the cottage, the smell of fresh toast in the air. He watched as Barnaby paced the garden. Nothing to find, Jones was sure. 

“What’s he doing?” said Clyde.

“Looking for evidence. Blood, footprints, anything the killer may have left behind.”

“And what good will that do?”

“It could lead us to the killer.”

“How?”

Jones looked at Clyde. “This is a dream. Why do you need an explanation? Just go with the flow.”

“Sarcasm,” said Clyde.

“Now you’re getting it,” said Agnes.

“I’d rather not,” said Clyde. “Sarcasm is rather insulting.”

The expression on Clyde’s face tugging at his heartstrings, Jones said, “Who found the body?”

“That would be Harry Secombe. Meredith’s one and only neighbour.”

“Harry Secombe?”

“Yes,” said Clyde. “He likes to nick a pigeon or two but his roasts aren’t as good as Meredith’s.”

“Michelin star chef--”

“And Meredith’s roasts aren’t as good as Agnes’s roasts.”

“We’ll need to talk to him?”

“He’s right here,” said Clyde.

Deep breath. “Harry Secombe.”

“Oh right. He should be home. Likes to sit on his couch and watch afternoon porn.”

“Right,” said Jones.

A passing moment. The silence awkward. Jones looked down at his feet, noticed his clothing, his shoes; dressed as he had been that day at work, before all of . . . this. Contradiction dragged through his mind, the thought lifting his head, his gaze searching for Barnaby, found him crouched down in front of a line of rose bushes with thorns big enough to take off a finger. This couldn’t be real . . .

“What was Meredith like?” said Jones.

“She was like Marilyn Monroe,” said Agnes.

Remembering the body in the coffin, Jones frowned.

Finishing his piece of toast, hand out waiting for another toasted slice of bread, Clyde said, “When she was younger. Her looks and body declined in her elderly years.”

“She was a knockout,” said Agnes, leaning toward Clyde, toast made available.

Clyde took the toast, took a bite.

“What was she like in her elderly years?” said Jones.

“Declined,” said Clyde.

He was going to hit him.

“Nicest person you would ever meet,” said Agnes, stepping in front of Clyde, pushing the psychic back. “She would do anything for anyone.”

“Did she have family? A husband? Kids?”

“No, she never married.”

“Kind of weird,” said Agnes, “considering what she looked liked.”

“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her?”

“No. Everyone liked her,” said Clyde, pushing forward, past Agnes. “She invited the entire village to her Sunday roasts. Best day of the week.”

Agnes swore.

“Except for Agnes’s ‘Two for One Meal Deal’ on Tuesdays.”

Jones looked at Agnes. Agnes looked back at him.

“She didn’t have any enemies?”

“No.”

“No one jealous of her Sunday roast?”

Agnes frowned . . . smiled. “No.”

“Jones,” said Barnaby.

Jones pulled his gaze away from Agnes. This situation was growing beyond bizarre. Jones turned and walked away, toward Barnaby, heart sinking when he saw what Barnaby was holding in his hand . . . a small piece of notepaper. Stopping next to Barnaby, he crouched down, took a closer look at a scrap of paper, the words written in dark ink barely legible, the note suffering from three days of British weather . . .

‘Gary Potter did it.’

.  
.  
.

Gary Potter did it. Barnaby had brought that bit of titbit with him into the dream; Jones had no doubt . . . Case solved. Time to go home. When asked, Clyde and Agnes had informed them no Garry Potter lived in their village or any surrounding village. Case not solved. This dream was quickly becoming a nightmare. Jones looked away from the large flat screen television, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Harry, a tall, thin man liked his porn thick and heavy, Jones grateful the volume was on mute. If this was Barnaby’s imagination at work, Jones had had enough. He didn’t want to gain any more knowledge into the psyche of John Barnaby. 

Another contradictory intrusion . . . 

Jones shook his head in denial. 

“She was just lying there,” said Harry. “You saw her, Clyde.”

Clyde nodded in agreement. Bit into his toast. Wiped the crumbs off his chest.

“Did you see anybody at the time?”

“I saw Meredith and I saw Clyde.”

He was in hell.

“Anyone else?”

Jones envied Barnaby’s patience.

“Who else would there be?” said Harry.

“The person who killed her.”

Oh. Harry looked at Clyde. Clyde looked at Agnes. Agnes looked at his toaster, frowning, slapped the palm of his hand against the side of the toaster, smiled when the bread popped up, perfectly toasted. Michelin star chef.

“I didn’t see anyone else.”

Barnaby sat on a large flowered lounge, next to Harry. Upper body forward, showing his interest, Barnaby said, “Do you know if she’s had any trouble? Arguments with other people? With you?”

Jones, standing by a bay window watched with disinterest as Harry’s eyes grew wide in shock.

“What did Meredith tell you?”

“Harry,” said Agnes, “Meredith didn’t tell him anything. She’s dead.”

What was wrong with these people? Brains the size of a green pea, they were dumber than the dead pigeon in Meredith’s front garden. Needing to voice his assumption, Jones stepped forward, mouth open at the ready . . . stopped when he saw the expression on Barnaby’s face. His boss was taking enjoyment from a ridiculous situation. Snapped his mouth shut and stepped back, rubbed his left hand over his face, accepting the fact that until Barnaby woke up, he had to suffer through. Didn’t mean he had to like it, or enjoy it.

“Did you have an argument with Meredith, Harry?” said Barnaby.

“No. She was so nice. Always let me nick a pigeon or two. I had a dinner party last weekend and I took more than two without asking. I didn’t think she would mind. She didn’t.”

“Where were you when she was murdered?”

“I was here, watching my porn. I heard a scream. I knew it wasn’t Hillbilly Jane who screamed so--”

“Hillbilly Jane?”

“On the telly. Anyway, I heard a scream and went outside to find out what was going on. That’s when I saw Meredith. I called Clyde.”

“Why Clyde?”

‘He’s our resident sleuth. I knew he would know what to do.” Harry looked at Clyde. “Shame about Lewis and Hathaway.”

“We apologised,” said Clyde.

Agnes snorted.

Lips thinned, Barnaby nodded. “Did you kill her, Harry?”

“No. People don’t kill here. We’ve never had such a thing before. Maybe this person came from somewhere else.”

Oh, here we go.

“From your world, maybe.”

Okay, that was it. Jones walked away, out of the living room and out of the cottage. He kept moving, stopping when he reached the road. A car drove past, a young woman at the wheel. She looked familiar, knowledge of her identification just out of his reach. Everything seemed normal, real . . .

Contradiction settling in, making itself at home, Jones realised one thing: this wasn’t Barnaby’s dream. He was in a hell that was his own, created from his own imagination and he couldn’t end it. He couldn’t snap himself awake.

“Jones?”

Jones didn’t turn around. “Hypothetically speaking, what if this was real?”

Barnaby came up beside him, hands in his pockets, a look of concern on his face. “I thought this was my dream?”

“Then why are you telling it from my point of view? You said it yourself, sir, if this was your dream, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t mean--”

“If this is my dream, why can’t I wake up? Am I asleep? Am I unconscious or worse still, in a coma? Why all this? Why am I dreaming this load of bollocks? This place, these people. It’s insane.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Jones,” said Barnaby. “Common sense tells me that this can’t be happening but it all seems so--”

“Real.”

An elderly woman cycled by, a wave of her hand, a verbal greeting, a quick snap at the bell on the bike’s handle.

“Except for the plot,” said Barnaby.

“My imagination at work.”

“Even you couldn’t come up with something like this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

.  
.  
.

A search of Meredith’s home yielded nothing that would provide a motive for her death. They had found a diary, Meredith discussing her love of roast pigeon and nothing else. A boring life led, she did nothing other than sedate and cook pigeons with the occasional bit of gardening and housework. There were no friends listed in her address book. A landline only, they couldn’t do an immediate search of phone records. There were no family photos, no family photo album. For someone so well liked, she had led not only a boring life but also a lonely one. 

Something wasn’t right . . . but it was only a dream, not everything reasonable, imagination taking a complicated route. 

But if it was a dream, why didn’t it end? Why didn’t the killer just jump out of a dark corner, knife drawn, ready to kill. Weapon on a downward slope, Jones would snap out of the dream, breath frantic, his heart beating a painful beat. 

No longer sure, he didn’t know what to do . . .

Jones slumped down onto a kitchen chair, forearms resting on the kitchen table thinking about what Barnaby had said. His words repeated . . . go with the flow until you wake up. What if he didn’t wake up? What if he remained in this hell for the rest of his life? Bad enough he’d only been here a matter of hours. If he were to be stuck here for days, weeks, he would lose his mind. If it all rested on solving this . . . case of murder, then perhaps that’s what he should do. Solve it and he might just wake up.

But how, they had nothing.

“We’ve got nothing,” said Barnaby, sitting down on the other side of the table.

Clyde and Agnes followed; both sitting down in the remaining two chairs. The smell of toast wafting through the kitchen. At least the room didn’t smell like roasted pigeon.

“What do we do next,” said Clyde.

“Wake up,” said Jones.

“You’re not going to wake up,” said Agnes. “This is real.”

“Says the Michelin star chef holding a toaster.”

“You’d be dead if it weren’t for my toast cooking abilities.”

“Right now,” said Jones, “death would be preferable.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you accepted the fact that this is real,” said Clyde.

Jones looked away. 

“Ah ha, you do think this is real.”

Barnaby interrupted. “Let’s say that it is. What do we do now? We have nothing. No forensic evidence. No family we can question--”

“You want to question your--”

“Don’t say it,” said Jones.

“No motive,” said Barnaby. “Nothing that will lead us to a killer.”

“What would you normally do,” said Clyde, “in your world?”

“We would have people search the crime scene--”

“You did that.”

“--collect anything the killer may have left.”

“Blood and footprints,” said Clyde.

“Hairs, fibres, that sort of thing,” said Barnaby. “We would also have a pathologist examine the body. A forensic team would examine her clothes . . .” A light bulb went off. “Where are the clothes she was wearing when she was killed?”

“I believe Clyde used them to warm his living room,” said Agnes.

Barnaby raised an eyebrow.

“He burnt them in his living room fireplace.”

“Bit short on wood,” said Clyde.

“Hell,” said Jones.

They all looked at him. He looked back.

“Okay,” said Barnaby. “We would question the person who found the body--”

“You did that.”

“Clyde,” said Agnes. “Stop interrupting.”

Clyde filled his mouth with toast. Agnes popped another fresh slice into his battery-operated toaster.

“Still hell,” said Jones.

“We’d question her family but she has none. But we can question the people who came to her Sunday roasts. There would be a search of her home, which we did but found nothing.”

“Oh,” said Clyde, taking a bite of toast, wiping the crumbs from his shirt. 

“If you stop eating that,” said Jones, “we’d go back to our own world?”

Clyde nodded.

“Then, please, stop eating it.”

“But you haven’t solved the case.”

“Meredith Bernstein killed herself out of boredom. There, I’ve solved it.”

“We have to go back to the beginning,” said Barnaby.

“Meredith or our first victim?” said Jones.

He wasn’t serious when he said it but Barnaby took his words and ran with it. “Our nameless victim. The method of death is different--”

“I wasn’t serious, sir.”

“If this is real,” said Barnaby, “then Gary Potter travelled from this world to ours.”

Jones let out a sigh of disbelief.

Clyde nodded. “Or he travelled from yours to ours and then back to yours.”

“This dream isn’t based on science fiction,” said Jones.

“We don’t have conductors to use for transitory travel and stability. That sort of thing doesn’t exist in our world.”

“You’ve gone crazy, sir.”

“Go with the flow, Jones. You’ll wake up soon enough.”

“Not if I’m in a coma.”

Barnaby turned his head. “I’m sure it’s not that serious.”

Jones snorted and shook his head.

Harry Secombe burst through the back door, stumbling to a halt in front of the kitchen table. Out of breath, he was difficult to understand. Saw the confused expressions written on the faces of the men who sat at the table, took a deep breath and tried again. “There’s been another one of those murder things!”


	2. Chapter 2

Reaching the victim first, Jones ground to a stop, heels scraping through lose gravel. He grimaced at the sight before him. Recognition made; the victim was the elderly woman who had ridden past him earlier on her bike. The woman who had taken the time to greet him, going out of her way to welcome a stranger . . . Heart pounding in his chest, the adrenaline pumped through his veins. A growing belief this was real, no longer a dream, his breathing became erratic, the anxiety building in his chest.

The sound of feet on gravel, the others so close . . . 

Feeling dizzy, Jones bent forward, hands on his knees, his balance uncertain. A long, deep breath . . . the smell of toast. It all felt so real . . .

A hand on his back. “Jones?”

He took his time, as long as he needed; it was his dream. Minutes passed before he stood upright, turning to face Barnaby. The look of concern on Barnaby’s face caused Jones to take a step back, the emotion surprising him. Barnaby followed him, reaching toward him. 

Jones waved him off, a ready excuse forming. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” It sounded reasonable in his head but putting a voice to his reasoning made it sound so . . . stupid. This was a dream. He shouldn’t be feeling anything. He shouldn’t be out of breath. He shouldn’t be dizzy. He shouldn’t be hungry. Why couldn’t he just wake up . . .

Because it wasn’t a dream.

Agnes stepped forward, his toaster held out toward Jones. “Toast?”

Oh god. How could this be real?

A hand snapped forward, gripping the back of Agnes’s shirt, pulling the chef back. Clyde glared at him, his first show anger. “You can’t give him my toast, Agnes.”

Indignant, Agnes said, “Why the hell not, Clyde? The man’s hungry.”

Breath held in his chest, all Jones could do was watch.

“We don’t know what will happen if Sergeant Jones eats my conductor for transitory travel and stability.”

“Well, he won’t go hungry.”

“What if he destabilises the stability of transitory travel?”

“He goes home,” said Agnes.

“Or he blows up just like Lewis and Hathaway.”

“I thought the butter and the burnt toast blew them up?”

“Yes it did, but we can’t take the chance,” said Clyde.

“If he does explode, you can apologise to him.”

“Sarcasm, Agnes?”

“Yes, Clyde. Sarcasm”

“We can’t take the risk.”

Barnaby stepped forward. “Or you can buy us lunch at the local pub.”

“What about Hester Burton?” said Clyde, pointing at the dead woman on the ground.

Barnaby looked at the body. Turned to look back at Clyde. “After we deal with Hester Burton.”

Hester lay on her left side on the side of the road, her legs tangled in her bike as though she’d done nothing but fall over; a large, brown leather bag caught beneath her body. Stuck in her chest . . . a long, handled knife, a pool of blood gathered around the entry wound. No visible injuries on her hands or forearms.

Jones reached into a coat pocket, pulling out a pair of blue disposable gloves. Stretching the gloves over his fingers, his hands, he crouched down. Close to the body, the smell of blood strong, Hester’s death so fresh. His gaze searched her body: her eyes closed and her mouth open, skin pale. The red flower pattern on her white dress made it difficult to find. Stomach turning queasy, Jones finally found it, the scrap of paper folded and hidden beneath the wide shoulder strap of her dress. 

Unsure if he should remove it, Jones looked back over his shoulder at Barnaby. He raised an eyebrow, asking a question. Barnaby nodded back at him. A glance at the victim’s features, a muttered apology, Jones lifted the strap with his right hand, pulled the piece of paper away with his left. He stood up and stepped back. With Barnaby beside him, Jones unfolded the paper . . .

Four words written in dark ink . . .

‘Gary Potter did it.’

Jones lifted his gaze, found his boss staring back at him. Opened his mouth, ready to express his acceptance that this was real, but the words stumbled, collapsing over each other . . . snapped his mouth shut when Barnaby gave him the look. Jones frowned, turned away and removed a plastic bag from the inside of his jacket. He put the evidence in the bag, sealed it shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. 

Walking away, Jones kept his gaze down, searching the ground around the body . . . 

“Is he looking for evidence?” said Clyde, taking a large bite of toast. Without looking, he wiped the crumbs from his shirt. 

Barnaby looked away from Jones, stared at Clyde. “Yes, he’s looking for evidence.”

“Aren’t you going to help?”

“Too many cooks spoil the broth,” said Barnaby.

“I only need one,” said Clyde.

“Michelin star chef for sod’s sake,” said Agnes as he placed a fresh slice of bread into the toaster. Pressed the button, began the process of toasting it. “And I’m not even getting paid for this.”

“Are we going to go through this again?”

“I’m a mich--”

“I’ll make sure you get a second Michelin star for cooking toast,” said Clyde.

“Really?”

Clyde looked at Agnes. Agnes looked at Clyde. Barnaby looked at Agnes.

“Sarcasm, Agnes,” said Barnaby.

“Bastard,” said Agnes.

Jones ignored the conversation, concentrating on the ground beneath him. Taking care of where he placed his feet, Jones circled the body, looking for anything that would help solve the case. This was real. This world was real and he wasn’t going home . . . not until they found the killer . . . or . . 

No, he couldn’t take the chance. Removing the toaster from Agnes, stopping the process of transitory stability could result in his and Barnaby’s death. He didn’t want to get blown up . . .

Jones closed his eyes, took a slow breath . . . if he woke up at this very moment, he would feel like a complete and utter idiot, face red with embarrassment . . . He waited. Nothing happened.

Still here. Everything still so real.

He paused in his search, narrowed his gaze. Cursed beneath his breath, there was nothing to see. No footprints other than his own, nothing to indicate another person had been in close proximity to the victim. Jones returned to the body. Knelt down. Fingers gripping the leather bag, he pulled it from beneath the body. 

Standing up, he moved away, back to Barnaby’s side. He opened the bag, began a futile search, finding nothing. The bag was empty.

“It’s empty,” said Jones.

Clyde sighed. “Hester loved that bag.”

“Loved it more than was natural,” said Agnes.

“Pathologist,” said Barnaby, “Do you have one?”

“No,” said Agnes.

“Pathologist?” said Clyde.

Agnes looked at Clyde. “To determine cause of death, Clyde. Haven’t you been listening?”

“Hard to hear sometimes when I’m constantly chewing on a piece of toast,” said Clyde, taking a bite of toast. “Besides, Hester has a knife in her chest. I would say that would cause death.”

“Forensics?” said Barnaby.

Clyde and Agnes looked at each other.

“You said you had crime here,” said Barnaby. “But you don’t have a pathologist or crime scene investigators--”

“Crime scene inv--”

“Forensics,” said Barnaby.

“Right,” said Clyde, taking a bite of toast before tilting his head to the side and pointing to his left ear.

“What sort of crime do you have?”

“Well,” said Clyde. “Young Johnny Smith likes to play on the cricket pitch.”

Jones raised an eyebrow.

Agnes explained. “There’s a ‘Don’t Play On The Cricket Pitch’ sign but he ignores it all the time.”

“And next to that there’s a ‘Don’t Ignore The Sign’ sign,” said Clyde. “But he ignores that too. And old Douglas MacBath likes to steal condoms from the corner shop.”

“Can’t get it up anymore though,” said Agnes.

“Likes to keep a healthy supply just in case,” said Clyde. “Douglas always was a dreamer.”

“Never a lover,” said Agnes.

Barnaby held up a hand, palm facing the two men. “So, you don’t have serious crime?”

Clyde looked at Agnes. Agnes looked at Clyde.

“We’ll take that as a no,” said Barnaby.

Jones, no longer able to stay out of the conversation said, “You don’t have a police force.”

Not a question, a simple statement.

Agreement made. “Never really needed one,” said Clyde.

“Until now,” said Agnes.

Clyde took another bite of toast, hand brushing away the crumbs. “What do you do now?”

Lips thin, Barnaby turned to look at Jones. “This is your dream, Jones. What are you planning to do now?”

Back straight, chin up, Jones said, “This isn’t a dream, sir.”

Barnaby took a moment, an expression of contemplation on his features. He looked away, a few seconds alone, turned back, nodded. “We need a large paper bag.”

Clyde frowned. “Are you hyperventilating?”

“We need to preserve the evidence. The knife.”

Agnes frowned. “You’re going to refrigerate it?”

He may have accepted this was real but it still felt like he was in hell.

“No,” said Barnaby, his patience hard to locate. “If the killer didn’t wear gloves, he or she would have left their fingerprints on the handle of the knife. We can lift those prints and when we find a suspect, we can compare the prints. If they match, we have the killer.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you ask your suspect if they killed Meredith and Hester?” said Clyde.

“They may not admit the truth.”

“They might lie?”

“That’s what he said, Clyde,” said Agnes.

“How are you going to lift their prints off the knife?”

Barnaby looked at Jones.

Always the lackey. “I’ll need starch powder, a small saucer, a candle, a knife, a shaving brush, clear sticky tape and a piece of white, thin cardboard.”

“We’ll also need a digital or instant camera,” said Barnaby. 

“You want to take photos?” said Clyde. “Of Hester?”

“Bit morbid isn’t it?” said Agnes.

“We take photos of the victim and the crime scene so we can refer to them later.”

Clyde frowned. Agnes mirrored his expression.

“Trust us,” said Barnaby. “We know what we’re doing.”

“And,” said Jones. “We can deal with Johnny Smith.”

“Harry!” said Clyde, yelling around a mouth full of toast.

Agnes shook his head. “He’ll be back inside watching his porn. He has a thing for Hillbilly Jane.”

Jones didn’t want to know what Agnes meant by ‘thing’. 

.  
.  
.

They sat in a corner of the local pub. The afternoon crowd small, their conversations muted; too busy staring at the two strangers to take part in idle chatter. Jones looked around the small pub, everything so similar to the pubs back home; the harsh light, the dark colors reminding him that this wasn’t home. It was giving him a headache. He looked down at his plate of fish and chips. His stomach turned at the thought, unsure if it would taste the same . . . he pushed the plate away, contemplated the pint of ale. Decided against it, not sure, if it would sit right in his stomach.

He was going to be here longer than he hoped, their stay extended . . .

There had been no prints on the knife. No prints on the note left at the scene.

A search of Hester’s home had yielded nothing; so much like Meredith. 

“Tell us about Hester Burton,” said Barnaby, plunging his fork into his steak and kidney pie.

Agnes stayed quiet, content with drinking his beer.

Clyde wiped the crumbs from his shirt. “Hester was different . . .”

Jones raised his gaze. “Different how?”

“She didn’t like people,” said Clyde, hesitating. “She liked . . . things.”

“Like the bag she had with her?”

“And her bike. She was always riding her bike.”

Agnes snorted.

“But everyone liked her.”

“Everyone likes everyone here,” said Barnaby.

“Except Hester,” said Clyde. “She liked her things more than people.”

“Did she go to Meredith’s Sunday roasts?”

“Yes, but she always sat alone.”

“With her bag and her bike,” said Agnes, hugging his toaster.

A second victim who lacked family and friends. Jones didn’t think that was a coincidence, a connection between the two victims. A possible motive; the killer believing they were committing a kindness, putting two lonely people out of their misery. Once a week, Meredith’s home filled with people enjoying her Sunday roasts, the rest of her week empty of companionship. Hester, her only companions, a leather bag and a bicycle; a lonely life no one had the right to end.

“And Harry went to Meredith’s Sunday roasts?”

“Yes. His porn isn’t on Sunday afternoons.”

“Did Harry have anything against Hester?” said Barnaby.

No one-legged Mr. Spiggot jokes. Please.

“No. Harry didn’t dislike anyone--”

“Except Dick Henderson,” said Agnes.

“Who is Dick Henderson?” said Barnaby.

“Hillbilly Jane’s onscreen partner,” said Clyde, sighing, his eyes glazed. “What a guy.”

Barnaby raised an eyebrow and looked at Agnes. 

Agnes looked back at him, a smile spreading across his features. “Clyde has a thing for Dick.”

Barnaby nodded, looked at Jones. 

Jones didn’t want to know.

“Hester,” said Barnaby, staring back at Clyde. “Did she have any enemies?”

“Well,” said Clyde, rejoining the conversation. “She did throw away her last bike. They didn’t get on apparently.”

He couldn’t get up and walk away. The situation too real.

“Are you sure this isn’t a dream?” said Barnaby, turning to look at Jones.

Jones snorted.

They fell silent.

Minutes passed.

Jones looked away, gaze settling on a young woman sitting on the other side of the room. Familiarity settled in his mind. A difficult attempt to place where he had seen her before. It slapped him in the face, body jerking at the memory. She had driven by in her car before Hester Burton had ridden by. Maybe she had seen something. Pushing his chair back, Jones stood, moved away from the table. He walked toward the woman.

She looked up, saw him, stood up and quickly walked away.

He didn’t voice a protest. Didn’t ask her to stay where she was. He followed her knowing Barnaby would be right behind him. His pace quickened, turning into a run as he chased her through the open doorway to the outside. Jones stopped outside the door, Barnaby joining him seconds later, Clyde and Agnes not far behind.

“Jones?”

Turning in a circle, Jones looked for any sign of the woman. Not seeing her, he looked for her car.

Found it. She was driving toward him, her speed increasing.

Jones crossed her path, leaving Barnaby behind, moving to the other side of the road the locals considered a driveway. 

“What’s he doing?” asked Clyde, taking a bite out of his toast.

Agnes, placing a fresh slice of bread in his toaster, said, “Crossing the road, Clyde.”

“Sarcasm, Agnes?”

“No, Clyde. He’s crossing the road.”

As she came closer, Jones waved his hand in an attempt to slow her down, to stop her. Speed still increasing, the car came so close, would miss him by inches . . .

Everything happened so quickly . . .

The driver’s door sprang open. So close, Jones couldn’t get out of the way. The door slammed into him, hard against his left side, knocking him back. His knees collapsed beneath the weight of pain, body falling to the ground, landing on his back. Bloody hell. Body still, unwilling to move, the pain too much, Jones made every effort to take a breath. It wasn’t easy; sure, the collision had caused damage. 

Breaking out of his shock, Barnaby ran across the road, falling to his knees beside his sergeant. “Jones?”

A breath finally taken, the pain increased. Jones closed his eyes, willing the pain away.

“Jones?” said Barnaby, his tone more urgent, insistent.

“Give me a minute,” said Jones, his voice a painful whisper.

It felt like his side was on fire, a match lit and placed against flesh. Something must be broken. A steady breath, the pain sharp, centered across his ribcage. A hand on his shoulder, fingers digging into flesh, physical contact. He breathed a little easier, the pain not as bad. Jones opened his eyes, blinked. Another minute taken. Now ready to move, he lifted his head . . . not a very good idea. He felt a little nauseous, a little dizzy. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Took a long, slow breath, letting it out. The tension eased from his body, muscles relaxing but damn, it still hurt.

“Doctor Hardy’s office is just down the road,” said Clyde, appearing behind Barnaby, leaning over the inspector’s shoulder. He looked down at Jones, bit into his toast. Wiped the crumbs from his shirt, the flakes of toast falling onto the back of Barnaby’s jacket. Clyde frowned and scraped the crumbs from the Inspector’s jacket. Satisfied, he looked back at Jones. “Does this sort of thing happen often?” 

.  
.  
.

Jacket and tie removed, Jones sat in a comfortable leather chair, empty stomach full of painkillers. Legs stretched outward, head resting against the back of the chair, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the nausea rolling through his stomach. He felt lightheaded, still dizzy . . . at least the pain was now bearable. He let out a breath, a comfortable sigh escaping. Body exhausted, it felt too long since he last slept. Mind drifting, he listened to the soft conversation taking place on the other side of Hardy’s surgery.

“Mostly bad bruising,” said Doctor Hardy, pushing his glasses back onto a nose set in a round face. “He’s going to be sore for a while but he’s okay, no serious damage. He’s lucky he wasn’t standing in front of the car.”

“Thank you, Doctor Hardy,” said Barnaby.

“You’re not from around here are you?”

“They’re helping us to find the person who killed Meredith and Hester,” said Clyde.

“I’m going to miss her Sunday roasts. She made the best . . . person who killed her?”

“Someone put a knife in their chests,” said Agnes.

“That’s never happened before,” said Hardy. “Hester too?”

Clyde nodded.

“What about her bag and bike? Who is going to take care of them?”

“We’ll find someone.”

Hardy nodded. “I won’t bother writing a script. I’ll just go and get some sample painkillers instead for your friend. Maybe some muscle relaxants in case he stiffens up.”

“He hasn’t got time to watch afternoon porn,” said Agnes, smiling at Barnaby.

Barnaby frowned at Agnes.

“Of course,” said Hardy. “I’ll just . . .”

Barnaby thanked Hardy again.

Hardy nodded a second time and left the room.

Privacy assured, Barnaby looked at Clyde and said, “Do you know that woman?”

Clyde frowned, confusion drawing his eyebrows together.

“The woman in the car,” said Barnaby.

“No. I’ve never seen her before.”

“And we know everyone in the village,” said Agnes, his gaze watching Jones.

“And the surrounding villages,” said Clyde. “She’s a stranger to us.”

“Like we are,” said Barnaby.

Clyde smiled. “We’re not strangers, Inspector Barnaby, we . . .”

Barnaby closed his eyes, released an elongated breath, his frustration evident.

“Sorry,” said Clyde. 

Agnes touched Clyde’s shoulder, gaining his attention. He nodded toward Jones.

Clyde moved toward the chair, toward Jones. He stopped beside the chair, reached toward Jones, poked him in the side, Jones’s left side, and quickly stepped back out of the way.

Body jerking with surprise and then pain, Jones cursed, angry gaze settling on Clyde.

Clyde went red with embarrassment.

“You can’t fall asleep,” said Agnes.

Still embarrassed, Clyde could only nod in agreement.

Agnes’s words repeated, Jones said, “Why the hell not, Clyde?”

Agnes looked at Clyde. “This is your thing, Clyde. Explain it to the man.” 

“If you fall asleep,” said Clyde, “you’ll go back to your own world.”

Bloody hell. You did not just say that.

Barnaby, now standing on the other side of the chair, gave Clyde the look. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

“Would you have stayed if I did?”

“Of course we would have,” said Barnaby.

“But you believed it was a dream. If I gave you an out, you would have taken it. You would have tried to sleep so you could wake up.”

“Don’t confuse him, Clyde,” said Agnes.

“He’s not confused, Agnes.”

“I’m not confused, Agnes--”

“I am,” said Jones, keeping his gaze down, eyelids drooping. The thing he wanted to do most, he now realises he can’t do. He needed to sleep, the painkillers leaving him feeling drowsy. Staying awake was going to be difficult. Just the thought caused his mind to wander, his eyes to close as the conversation continued around him.

“This isn’t a dream. We know that now. This is real and you need help to stop a killer.”

“Oh,” said Clyde, mouth now open in surprise.

“Close your mouth, Clyde,” said Agnes.

“We’re very grateful to both of you,” said Clyde, snapping his hand forward, back of his fingers roughly tapping the side of Jones’s face.

Eyes snapping open, Jones could only glare up at Clyde.

“Could she be from our world?” said Barnaby, ignoring his sergeant. “Could she have travelled from there to here.”

“You said you didn’t have transitory travel--”

“We don’t but you said you’ve never had a murder before.”

“We haven’t.”

“We have a problem then,” said Barnaby. “Either we’ve discovered a way to travel between worlds or someone here has discovered how to commit murder.”

“It can’t be us,” said Clyde. “It’s unthinkable. We all like each other--”

“Except Hester,” said Agnes.

“Hester is dead,” said Barnaby. “It can’t be her.”

“There’s no one else,” said Clyde.

“What about Harry?” 

“What about Harry?” said Agnes, stepping forward.

“We investigate the spouse. The boyfriend or girlfriend. We even investigate the children . . . we investigate the person who found the victim. And in this case, Harry found both victims.”

“Harry wouldn’t leave his porn--”

“Or Hillbilly Jane,” said Agnes.

“--to kill someone. Every afternoon, six days a week, Henry sticks to that lounge like glue.”

Agnes raised an eyebrow, winked at Barnaby.

Barnaby held up his hand, palm outward . . . thought better of it, dropped his hand back to his side. “We have no idea when she was killed--”

“Three days ago,” said Clyde.

“She could have been killed in the morning,” said Barnaby. “Where would Harry have been in the morning?”

“That won’t work. People pass by Meredith’s cottage on the way to the pub. They would have seen her.”

“And Harry said he heard her scream while he was watching his porn,” said Agnes.

“He could be lying.”

“Harry doesn’t lie. He’s not capable of lying.”

“Harry wasn’t driving that car,” said Agnes, looking down at Jones.

“And, Hester was killed in the afternoon. Harry would have been sitting on his couch watching Hillbilly Jane.”

“He left his couch at some point because he saw Hester lying on the side of the road.”

“Commercial break,” said Agnes.

“Enough time to kill someone?”

“Enough time to wash your hands,” said Agnes. “When he’s watching porn, he washes his hands . . . a lot.”

Clyde shook his head. “It’s not Harry. Call it a gut feeling. A psychic feeling. Harry didn’t do it.”

“Now you’re getting the idea,” said Barnaby.

“What idea?” said Clyde.

“How this works,” said Barnaby.

“I don’t get it,” said Clyde, turning to look at Agnes. “Sarcasm?”

“Hell no,” said Agnes.

“We need to find this woman,” said Barnaby.

Clyde took a large bite of toast. “How?”

Barnaby looked down at Jones. 

“She drove past Meredith’s cottage just before Hester rode past,” said Jones. ”I thought she might have seen something.”

“She rode that bike every day,” said Clyde.

“All day every day,” said Agnes. “Except for Sunday afternoons.”

“She loved that bike.”

Agnes offered Clyde a piece of toast. “More than was natural.”

Clyde took the proffered toast, nodded in agreement.

Jones pulled his heels back toward the chair and sat up. The pain in his side, his hip, now a dull ache, the painkillers working. A deep breath and then he pushed up, lifting his body out of the chair. Balance unsteady, he took a breath and waited. His balance gaining confidence he turned and looked at Barnaby, again surprised by the look of concern on Barnaby’s features.

“She must have seen me standing on the side of the road,” said Jones, looking away, staring at Clyde instead.

Barnaby nodded in understanding. “She recognised you too. That’s why she ran.”

“The thing is . . . I’m sure I’ve seen her before.”

“Our world is very similar to yours. Everything and everyone will look familiar. It’s to be expected,” said Clyde.

“No. She looked familiar in the way that I’ve seen her before.”

“Here?” said Barnaby.

“I’m not sure. It’ll come to me.”

Barnaby nodded. “She’s our first suspect.”

“I’m pretty sure she killed Meredith and Hester,” said Jones. “Why else would she try to run me down?”

“Just like that?” said Clyde. “You come to a conclusion because someone tried to run you down with a car. I expected something more theatrical.”

“Getting hit by a moving car door isn’t theatrical enough for you, Clyde?” said Agnes.

“Well . . . I expected a gathered crowd and an announcement . . .”

“You read too much Agatha Christie, Clyde,” said Agnes.

“You have Agatha Christie?” said Barnaby. 

“Who doesn’t,” said Agnes, shrugging his shoulders.

“Do they know who she is,” said Jones, nodding toward Clyde and Agnes.

“No, she’s a stranger.”

“Like us?”

“It’s possible.”

Jones shook his head, placed his palm against his forehead, a sudden headache bashing against the inside of his skull. He was confused, everything making no sense. He’d only just convinced himself that this was all real. Now he had to accept the fact that someone was travelling between worlds killing people. Maybe it was better if he could pretend he was still dreaming . . . a stab of pain through his left side convinced him otherwise. This was still real . . . too real. People were dying in both worlds.

“And our victim, sir?”

“Someone was killed in your world?” said Clyde.

Barnaby nodded. “It happens too often.”

“That’s so sad.”

“Don’t patronise him, Clyde.”

Clyde looked offended but shrugged it off. 

“And our victim had the same note as yours,” said Barnaby.

“’Gary Potter did it’,” said Jones, nodding.

“Who’s Garry Potter?” said Clyde.

Barnaby sat down on the arm of the chair, a thoughtful look on his features. “We thought he was our killer but now . . . it’s possible Gary Potter is our victim.”

Clyde shook his head. “I’m confused.”

“Have some toast,” said Agnes, leaning toward Clyde, a fresh piece of toast sitting high in the toaster.

Clyde took the toast and ate it silence.

“If Garry Potter is our victim, and this woman is the killer, then she’s putting the blame on Potter. She’s telling us that he drove her to it.”

“She was angry when she killed Potter,” said Jones. “But she wasn’t angry when she killed Meredith and Hester. Why?”

Clyde looked at Agnes. Agnes looked at Clyde. They smiled.

A light bulb went off in Jones’s head. “She knew Potter but she didn’t know Meredith and Hester.”

Barnaby nodded. “Her anger toward Potter grew over time and then something happened. Or he did something that made her snap.”

“Then why come here or come back here and kill Meredith and Hester?”

“We’ll ask her that when we find her,” said Barnaby, looking at Clyde. “Did you recognise the car she was driving?”

“Yes,” said Clyde. “It belonged to Meredith.”

He was ready to hit someone.

“Why didn’t you tell us that before?”

“You didn’t--”

“Don’t,” said Jones. 

Clyde snapped his mouth closed.

“Is there any way you can ask the villagers to keep an eye out for the car?”

“Yes. We can tell Hazel. She spreads gossip like it was a highly contagious virus.”

“I want people to look for the car. If they see it, they call you. Understand?”

Clyde nodded. Agnes nodded.

Barnaby gave them the look, waited them out. Clyde and Agnes collected themselves, pulled out two mobile phones between them. Clyde scowled at Agnes who put his phone back in his pocket. Within seconds, Clyde was talking to Hazel. Barnaby turned his back to them.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, sir. Just sore.”

“You’re sure?”

Jones was hoping for that particular expression Barnaby was so capable of, his current expression making Jones feel a little too uncomfortable. They got on, as well as an Inspector and his sergeant could but Barnaby kept a wall between them, a close friendship something the older man didn’t want. There were still times when Jones felt unwelcome in the Barnaby home, Mrs. Barnaby more welcoming than her husband. But every now and then, Barnaby surprised him, showing concern when he least expected it . . . like now. 

Like today, too many times today . . .

“Yes, sir.”

Barnaby looked like he wanted to say more, Jones grateful when the surgery door opened. Doctor Hardy entered his surgery, hands full he closed the door with the heel of his left foot; something he’d obviously done many times before, the door closing with a soft click. Their conversation interrupted Jones turned away from Barnaby. 

“I haven’t got much,” said Hardy, moving closer to Jones, “but these should help. I do suggest you only take them when absolutely necessary. And if you do stiffen up,” he glanced at Agnes then back to Jones, “take a long hot bath before you resort to the muscle relaxants.”

Agnes stepped forward.

Jones knew what was coming.

“Just don’t take them while you’re taking a bath,” said Agnes with a smile. “If you know what I mean.”

“No,” said Jones, knowing exactly what he meant. “I don’t.”

“Straight over his head, Agnes,” said Clyde, staring down at his mobile.

“Thank you,” said Jones, taking the medication, hiding them away in a pocket of his trousers.

“No, Clyde. That was sarcasm.”

“I’m really not getting the hang of this, am I, Agnes?”

“Not in your nature, Clyde.”

“Thank you, Agnes.”

“You’re welcome, Clyde,” said Agnes. “Toast?”

Clyde took a slice of toast out of the toaster and took a large bite. A smile grew over his features as he looked at Jones, then Barnaby . . . he stopped chewing, his expression frozen at the sight of Barnaby. He swallowed his toast. “Hazel is spreading the gossip. If someone sees Meredith’s car, they’ll call me.”

“It’s parked out front,” said Hardy, moving behind his desk and sitting down. He shifted his glasses, pushing them further up his nose. Picked up a pen and began to write up the notes of his consultation . . .

Jones moved first. Ignoring the sharp twinge of pain in his side, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the leather chair, putting it on as he made his way to the door. Barnaby beat him to it, opening the door, moving through the doorway before Jones. The pain and medication were slowing him down. 

They made it outside, coming to a stop, searching the area for Meredith’s car. They found it parked on the side of the road a few doors down from the surgery, the front end of the car facing away from them. Jones bent his knees, lowering his upper body. Shaded by a large birch tree, it was difficult to see inside the car. He stood upright and looked across at Barnaby. Jones nodded toward the left side of the car. Barnaby returned the nod and began to move slowly toward the right side of the car. 

Jones walked around the back of the car. There was no reflection in the side-view mirror. Sure, the car was empty, he began to look around, searching for the woman Barnaby wouldn’t be able to recognise. He couldn’t see her . . .

She stepped out of the shadows, her gaze watching him. A moment frozen, Jones unable to move, the memory of what happened earlier flashing through his mind. He wasn’t going off on his own this time . . . the way she had killed Gary Potter, the woman capable of such violence.

She stood just over five feet, her frame athletic, brown hair worn short. She smiled. Turned and walked away, back into the shadows, appearing seconds later as she entered a thin laneway.

“Sir,” said Jones, pointing toward the spot she had stood only moments before.

Barnaby came up beside him and listened to the short description Jones gave him. Jones stepped onto the road. A strong grip on his arm pulled him back. Jones frowned, confused. Understanding came slowly, Jones nodding that he understood.

Barnaby turned back to the surgery, stepped back in surprise to find Clyde and Agnes standing so close. “Where does that laneway lead to?”

“It leads to the next street,” said Clyde. 

“Is there a way to cut her off?” said Jones.

He expected an answer that would cause his anger to grow, their naivety pushing his limits so close to breaking point.

“If you go through Sarah’s Coffee house,” said Clyde, pointing at the building on the left side of the laneway. “There’s a back door that will put you on the road where the laneway leads.”

“And, just so you know,” said Agnes. “At the end of the laneway, across the road there’s an abandoned building.”

That sounded ominous.

With no backup apart from each other, Jones and Barnaby separated. Barnaby instinctively headed toward the laneway. Jones knew his boss was being protective, another surprise. He shook off the emotion and ran across the road. He could hear footsteps behind him, the smell of toast drifting across his senses. He looked back over his shoulder, held his hand up, body language telling Clyde and Agnes to stay back. They nodded in understanding. Jones opened the door to the coffee shop.

It was crowded, so many people. Jones made his way through the maze of tables, toward the back of the room, his sight on the exit sign, the pain pulling at his side and hip. He found the back door, opened it and stepped back out into the sunlight. Looking to his right, he found Barnaby who shook his head; they’d lost her.

Not yet.

Ominous just became real.

The abandoned building was obvious; standing out like a haunted mansion, the structure more like a cottage than anything else. Windows boarded, the front door hung off two broken hinges. And, like a ghost, she disappeared through the small, dark gap of the front door and into the abandoned building.

Heart sinking, Jones knew they had to go in there. They had no choice; a good chance she would escape through another exit, their suspect lost for a second time. One look at Barnaby and Jones knew his boss was having the same thoughts. They moved as one, making their way to the front door of the cottage. 

A smell of toast and the soft sound of footsteps behind them.

They stopped, Barnaby turning around to face Clyde and Agnes and in harsh whisper said, “Stay here!”

Clyde looked at Agnes. Agnes looked at Clyde.

Jones looked down the street, a collection of cottages and small business; it was quiet . . . eerie. The light too harsh, the colors too dark, a reminder this wasn’t his world. Anything could go wrong . . . 

Jones always went in first, an act that had become second nature but Barnaby held him back. Jones realised Barnaby didn’t think he was up to the job, a nasty set of bruising sending Jones to the back of the line.

Barnaby went in first, squeezing his way through the gap, disappearing inside . . . a few moments of silence, Jones about to follow . . .

A soft thump . . .

Jones, not thinking, instead reacting, pushed through the gap, bruised side brushing against the doorframe. He grimaced in pain, expression falling when he saw Barnaby on the floor.

Barnaby was trying to sit up, elbows buckling every time he began to make progress. A quick survey of the room; they were alone. Jones knelt down beside Barnaby, hands and eyes searching for an injury.

“She stabbed me,” said Barnaby, reaching behind his back.

Barnaby leaned forward, giving Jones better access. Jones’s gaze searched Barnaby’s back, finding nothing. He looked down. An empty syringe lay on floor. She had injected . . .

A familiar sensation crawled along his spine, settling at the base of his neck. Jones turned on his heels . . . too late . . .

A blur of movement, violent and too fast for Jones to follow, pain striking the side of his skull. He fell, face first, body hitting the floor. Darkness made an unwelcome intrusion.

Jones closed his eyes . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Jones opened his eyes . . .

A wooden floor beneath him, a battered body in front of him . . .

He struggled to find his way through sluggish thoughts to remember what had happened. A hard fight, his thoughts lost, wandering beyond his reach. He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, a soft sound created. Not enough time to dwell . . . instinct tickled at the back of his mind, telling him he was in danger, memory making a heated disagreement. He couldn’t remember what happened. He wasn’t sure of his location. He wasn’t certain he was alone.

He opened his eyes, the room in front of him familiar . . .

He stared at the body laying in death in the middle of the room . . . an image flashed in his mind, bright and sharp, drifting out of his reach when he tried to bring it into focus. It floated on the edge of his consciousness, just out of his grasp, an irritating feeling the result. Mind lost, his thoughts continued to wander, he could settle on only one thing . . .

He needed to move, he knew and understood that much. He shifted his body, testing for further pain and injury . . . his head ached, a heavy weight of pain splitting the side of his skull. A dull pain in his side and hip . . . the return of memory so quick, a sudden onslaught of images, it left him breathless.

Another world . . . it had been so unbelievable, his mind insistent he was dreaming . . . not a nightmare, the existence of another world too real. Images fell into place, a connecting puzzle revealed, the last piece still missing. 

He had to move . . .

Strength lacking, it was a difficult thing to do. He pushed up onto his elbows, his forearms, head hanging low . . . a nauseating attack of vertigo keeping him in place. Closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, deep breaths, an attempt to calm the side effects of a head injury, a blow to the head the only explanation for his current situation; still unable to grasp the who, the how or the why.

He had to move.

Forcing his body upright, Jones fought to keep his balance, body tilting to the left, the vertigo too heavy. Eyes searching, he needed some sort of support, a crutch to hold his weight. His gaze found the desk at the edge of the room. Resorting to crawling on his hands and knees, Jones made his way to the desk, every movement slow and methodical. Reaching the desk, he gripped its edge and pulled himself up onto unsteady feet . . .

It took everything he had not to throw up, stomach rebelling, forcing bile into this throat. He swallowed down the nausea. The pain in his skull increased; a sharp, pounding ache he found hard to bear. He leaned forward, forearms on the desk, head falling down, forehead resting on the desk. . . he could feel the saliva filling his mouth. A long, deep, slow breath. It didn’t help, his headache still increasing. He wanted to fall back, allow his body to collapse . . .

He felt the danger, an uncomfortable feeling crawling along his spine . . .

Soft footsteps echoed through the room . . . the sound of shoes scraping against the floor . . . the footsteps too light to be Barnaby. Instinct correct in its warning, Jones lifted his head, his upper body and turned to face the room. The dizziness a weight too heavy to carry, his knees buckled, not what he wanted, his body becoming vulnerable to the oncoming threat. He fell back to the floor, lower body crumbling, his legs curling toward his body, upper body finding a resting place against the desk, the furniture supporting his weight, keeping his head and shoulders off the floor . . .

She stepped into the room . . .

He frowned in confusion. She was the same woman and yet . . . certain she was the woman who had driven past; sure, she was the woman who had hit him with her car; confident she was the woman they had followed into the empty cottage . . . but she looked different, her face softer, her hair longer, brushing against her shoulders, the colors she wore were lighter. 

He couldn’t be sure if she were from this world or the other. Familiarity still nagging, he knew he’d seen her before that moment in front of Harry Secombe’s home. Knew if he remembered, everything would fall into place. He sighed, a heavy breath of frustration.

In her right hand, she held a small club . . . that explained how and who. The why still elusive. 

She moved further into the room, her gaze watching him, travelling the length of his body. He shivered in response, uncomfortable with her scrutiny. She stepped over the body lying on the floor, her ignorance of death warning him of what she was capable. He couldn’t help but notice when she tightened her grip on the club, an indication she was preparing herself to use it . . .

Heels scraping against the floor, Jones made every effort to get up. Aching head encumbered with vertigo, his body weak, he struggled to gain his feet, to gain some sort of control over the woman standing in front of him. He lost traction, shoes slipping on the floor, body falling back down, finding his previous position . . . on the floor, back against the desk.

Surprise and confusion filled him when she sat down on the floor in front of him. She sat cross-legged, her long dress covering her legs, providing dignity. She leaned forward, within reach, and rested her elbows on her knees; the small club visible at all times . . . a threat . . . a warning given.

“Ask me a question,” she said.

His confusion grew. His silence unwelcomed.

She moved slowly, in no rush. Leaning even closer, she tapped the club against his left ankle, a soft touch. Her silent explanation was enough for Jones, his mind taking the hint. He asked the first thing that came to mind, the most obvious question, words tumbling out of his mouth . . .

“Who are you?”

“Elizabeth Kensington.”

The name was unfamiliar.

“Ask me another.”

He frowned, his mind playing tricks on him, head injury creating a bizarre situation. Instead of silencing him, deleting a witness who could recognise her and now give her a name, she was telling him to ask her questions. She wanted to talk, was willing to give information that may incriminate her. This was crazy enough to convince him that she wasn’t from this world. He took a moment to think, deciding to ask a question he knew she wouldn’t expect.

“How do you travel from your world to this one?” 

She smiled, satisfied with his question. “The cottage I led you into, there’s a doorway to this world. It allows me to travel back and forth at my leisure.”

Barnaby.

“You injected my boss with something,” said Jones. “What was it?”

“We don’t need company.”

Anger tore through him, her words giving him the wrong impression. “What did you do to him?”

“I injected him with a combination of caffeine and sodium benzoate.”

He couldn’t wrap his head around it, mind too confused to understand the meaning behind her words; it made his head hurt, the ache increasing, the pain pounding inside his skull. He wanted to ask her to explain but refused to voice his question, unwilling to appear stupid in front of her.

Expression on his face giving him away, she said, “It will keep him awake and in the other world.”

“Why do you want him to stay awake?”

“Three’s a crowd.”

Confirmation she wasn’t from this world. She was a nutter. Just like Clyde. Just like Agnes. 

He looked away, time to think, to gather his thoughts. It wasn’t easy, head injury still controlling his thoughts. Barnaby couldn’t fall asleep. His body would take hours to work the drugs through its system. He was on his own, his boss stuck in another world. How did Clyde intend to send them back once they’d solved the case? He would have to stop eating the toast but how long would it take . . . Did she know about Clyde and his conductor for . . . he couldn’t bring himself to think it, the entire situation so absurd. Another thought occurred to him . . . if the same thought struck Barnaby . . . consciousness taken away from him by any means, Barnaby would come back to this world.

“How did you find your way into the other world?” said Elizabeth.

Jones returned her stare, his voice silent, his face expressionless; a question he was unwilling to answer. He couldn’t reveal Clyde and his ability. Couldn’t give her reason to go back. Asked another question instead.

“How did you know knocking me unconscious would bring me back here?”

“I asked a question first.”

She was playing a game he wasn’t willing to partake. 

“The same way you got me here,” said Jones. “I fell unconscious and woke up somewhere else.”

Elizabeth frowned, not convinced. “You don’t have the ability yet. You didn’t find the door, you would have said if you did.”

Jones silently cursed. She had given him an explanation he could use, mind not at full capacity, something so obvious falling through his grasp.

“How did you travel from this world to the other?”

“I don’t know,” said Jones. “I wasn’t a willing participant.”

Elizabeth stood up and began to pace in front of Jones, her anger and frustration showing. “Who were the two men with you?”

“Tour guides.”

He pulled away from the blow, his body slow to move, head injury slowing him down. His left side stiff, the muscles contracting, tight, he lifted his arm to ward off the attack. The club struck his left forearm, the pain snapping through his elbow up into his shoulder. He followed through with his right arm, an attempt to close his fingers around her wrist, to gain control of the situation. Failed, his fingers clumsy, her movement too quick for his sluggish mind to follow. It left him open . . .

She swung a second time, Jones catching sight of the club in his peripheral. He tried to move, the desk behind him a hindrance. A heavy strike, the club slamming against the side of his face. He felt his skin give way, could feel the blood trickle down his cheek. The taste of blood filled his mouth; he’d bitten his tongue. Vertigo pulsed through him, momentum from the blow knocking him off his arse, upper body falling to the floor, head bouncing off the floorboards. A deep breath. He closed his eyes . . . 

“Hey!”

Opened his eyes. Realised he must have blacked out for a few seconds, possibly minutes. He tried to focus his gaze, found it too difficult . . . two head injuries in one day taking their toll. Tried to lift his head, the effort too much, his head too heavy, a concussion created. The choice taken away from him, he stayed where he was, on the floor, the situation he was in screaming vulnerability; he didn’t have the strength, his body unwilling and unable to protect and defend himself. A woman had taken him down.

He blinked, gaze focusing enough for him to see what was in front of him. She had returned to her position on the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of him. The club swung from her fingers, the continuous movement nauseating. 

“Ask me a question,” said Elizabeth.

What the hell.

“Come on, I know how this works.”

Jones frowned. “How what works?”

“This,” said Elizabeth, waving her left hand at Jones. “The big reveal.”

His frown grew. 

She began to move, speaking as she stood up. “Did I pick the wrong police officer to hear my confession? Maybe I should go back and get the other guy.”

“No!” Jones reached toward her.

She pushed his hand away and sat back down. “Then ask me a question.”

Elizabeth Kensington wanted to confess. He could do that, listen to her words. He may not remember them later, concussion wrecking havoc with short-term memory. If he asked enough questions, he could buy Barnaby more time. Just don’t ask anything stupid; another hit with that small club and he might not wake up for days. 

“Why do you want to confess?”

“Why not.”

She wasn’t going to make it easy.

He had to think, difficult as it was. Another thought struck him. A ludicrous thought but the way things were going, he had no doubt what he was thinking was actually happening.

“You think this is Agatha Christie,” said Jones. “That I’m going to deduce what you did and why you did it before revealing that you did it.”

It was possible he’d just made an idiot out of himself.

“Exactly,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve read enough murder mystery novels back home and watched enough of them here. I know how this works. So . . . deduce.”

“You do realise, I’m a detective sergeant,” said Jones, knowing exactly how it works in the movies and television shows.

She looked disappointed. “Oh. Not a detective chief inspector then?”

“No.”

“And the man with you?”

Oh hell, he’d put his foot in it.

“You killed Gary Potter,” said Jones, pointing toward the body on the floor, an attempt at distraction. 

“Yes. Now tell me why.”

“It’s hard to think when you’re lying on the floor with a concussion . . .”

Wrong thing to say.

Elizabeth dropped the club, her body reaching forward. Small hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him upright into a sitting position, pushing him back against the desk. She let go, hovered in case he needed extra support. He didn’t. She moved back to her previous position and waited.

Body and skull separating, it felt like his head was still resting on the floor, an unnatural feeling, a sensation of floating. The dizziness was out of control, the nausea not far behind. He closed his eyes, held his breath, tried to wait it out . . .

A soft tap against his foot, she was trying to gain his attention. She would have to wait. It took too long for everything to settle, the vertigo and nausea slow to dissipate. Finally feeling safe, Jones opened his eyes, blinked his vision into focus. She was still sitting in front of him, patience of a saint . . . for now.

“Are you ready to continue,” said Elizabeth.

Buy more time.

“A reveal usually has a bigger crowd . . . more than one suspect,” said Jones.

Elizabeth looked away, cheeks red with embarrassment. “I don’t know anyone else. Don’t know anyone to invite . . .”

“It’s not a party.”

“There’s three of us,” said Elizabeth. “That’ll have to be enough.”

Three. Oh. He looked at the cadaver on the floor. Frowned. Something occurred to him, something he should have thought of earlier, thought process too slow . . . where were the SOCO’s. If they had left the scene, why was the body still here? What the hell was going on?

“Where is everyone?” said Jones.

“Your forensic team?”

Jones nodded; pain bounced around inside his skull. He closed his eyes, opened them a moment later . . .

Elizabeth leaned forward; her words whispered . . . “This is a dream.”

No.

“The look on your face. No, they left.”

“They wouldn’t leave the body here alone.”

“They think you and your detective chief inspector are still here. They left the body in your capable hands. Or though I’m beginning to question how capable you are.”

“You should catch me on a better day.”

“I caught you today,” said Elizabeth. “Now, get on with it.”

The body bag carriers were late . . .

“I know what you’re thinking. You don’t have to worry. They’re just late. I haven’t killed them. Like your forensic team, they assume you’re keeping the body company.”

He was going to have words with Kate and SOCO’s. Their assumptions leaving him in a bad and dangerous situation. How long until someone arrived to take the body, he didn’t know. It could be minutes. It could be an hour. This was hell and he was right in the middle of it all. 

Another thought, everything coming together in bits and pieces.

“The uniformed officer. There should be one outside . . .”

“Still is,” said Elizabeth, raising the club. “But think about it. If you yell out, call for help . . . I’ll kill him when he comes to your rescue.”

He couldn’t take the chance. He didn’t want to be responsible for someone’s death. Memory told him the officer was male, not that it mattered, Elizabeth Kensington taking down one male officer today, obviously capable of taking care of herself; she had nothing to lose.

“You’re slow on the uptake aren’t you,” said Elizabeth.

“Head injury.”

She shifted her body, bum scraping against the floor as she moved closer. “Do you need me to spell it out for you?”

An opportunity to gain extra time. He stayed silent.

“Sooner or later someone is going to arrive to take away the body. Eventually the officer guarding the crime scene is going to get bored and when he gets bored, he’s going to start looking for something to occupy his mind. He might decide that he wants a cuppa. He’ll come inside . . . are you getting it yet? If they come in before the reveal is done, someone is going to die.”

He got it.

This wasn’t going the way it did in books. She had the upper hand. She was in control.

Hang on.

“We were in the other world for hours . . .”

“Time doesn’t move as fast here,” said Elizabeth. “An hour there is only a few minutes here. Weird huh?”

“Very.”

“I spent my first day here and when I went back . . . let’s just say I missed almost a week’s worth of afternoon porn.”

“Really.”

“Now. Get on with it.”

He did.

“You killed Gary Potter out of anger,” said Jones. “You knew him. You’ve known him for a while. He did something to piss you off.”

She waited, her silence forcing him to continue. He gathered his thoughts, coming to a conclusion, everything making sense. 

“You were lovers but he broke it off. Decided he didn’t want you anymore.”

The expression on Elizabeth’s face told him he’d gotten it right. 

“Your turn,” said Jones.

She frowned.

“If you want to do it the Agatha Christie way, you have to tell me what happened between you and Gary Potter. You go into more detail about the why and the how. It’s a back and forth thing.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I live in the other world. I was visiting . . . it doesn’t really matter how I found the door, I did. I had no family, no friends. I accidently found myself here, in another world, only a few weeks ago. I met Gary. We became friends and then something more. It all happened so quickly. Then he changed his mind. You were right. Gary decided he didn’t want me anymore. I got angry. We argued. I snapped . . .”

Something moved in the shadows behind Elizabeth. Jones lifted his gaze, searching and finding Agnes Otis, his battery operated toaster held out before him, a slice of toast at rest in the toaster. Lowering his gaze, he had to keep Elizabeth occupied, although he didn’t know what a Michelin star chef was capable of doing. He would have to put his trust in Agnes and hope for the best.

So hard to believe, he still had to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.

“. . . by the time I gained control, he was dead.”

“The note you left,” said Jones. “You blamed Potter for what happened.”

“It was his fault he died. I put the blame where it belonged.”

“What about Meredith and Hester? Was it his fault they died?”

“He was culpable. I did it because of him. That’s why I left the same note with their bodies. It was Garry Potter’s fault. He’s the reason they’re dead.”

Agnes moved into the room, his footsteps so quiet . . .

“Why did you kill them?”

“Because they were lonely.”

“How did you know? If you weren’t from that village, how did you know they were in the same situation? No family and no friends.”

“I went to one of Meredith’s Sunday roasts. I heard the gossip. Decided it was best to put them out of their misery.”

“That wasn’t your decision,” said Jones.

“I knew how they felt. It was a lonely life.”

“You knew how you felt. You didn’t know how they felt. It was assumption on your part. They could have been happy.”

“You call that happy? Hester was practically having an affair with a bicycle. Meredith killed and ate pigeons. They had no family. No friends. That isn’t living. It’s getting by until the day you die.”

Agnes, so close . . .

Elizabeth stood up.

Agnes froze.

Jones held his breath.

She moved closer, standing over Jones. She leaned forward, her right hip against Jones’s shoulder. He shifted his body, testing its ability to do something. Dizziness overwhelmed him. If he did try something, he wouldn’t be able to carry through, not physically capable of doing what was needed or required. He looked toward Agnes. Agnes lifted his toaster above his head, a shower of breadcrumbs falling past his face, drifting down toward the floor.

A piece of paper torn from a notebook, a soft scratching noise. Her task complete, Elizabeth stepped back, her gaze fixed on Jones. She stood in front of him, small club in her right hand, a piece of paper in her left.

He knew what it was. Knew the words written on it.

She held it out toward him. Four words written in black ink.

‘Gary Potter did it.’

“You’re going to kill me too?”

Elizabeth smiled.

“That’s not how it works in the Agatha Christie books,” said Jones.

“I’ve decided I like killing people. Death fills my lonely life.”

She leaned forward. Tucked the notepaper into the pocket of Jones’s coat and stepped back. She raised the club . . .

Jones smiled.

Understanding came quickly.

Elizabeth spun on her heel, turning to face the room. Elizabeth looked at Agnes. Agnes looked at Elizabeth.

Agnes swung the toaster, fifteen-volt battery facing Elizabeth, its edge creating a small dent in Elizabeth’s left temple. She dropped to the floor, the club falling from her fingers. Case solved. Time to go home.

“Toast?” Agnes knelt down in front of Jones and held the toaster toward him.

“Maybe later,” said Jones.

“Fair enough,” said Agnes, placing all his weight on his backside, making himself more comfortable.

“How did you get here?”

“Clyde decided it should work both ways. Used his psychic powers and his transitory conductor to send me here.” He looked around the room. “Wow, everything is so bright.” He looked back at Jones. “Of course, he made me sign a plausible deniability waiver first . . . just in case he blew me up.”

“Did he apologise first . . . in case he blew you up?”

“Sarcasm?”

“No.”

“Bastard.”

“Why didn’t you use the same door she did,” said Jones, looking at Elizabeth.

“She used a door?”

Could he please lose consciousness now?

“Why didn’t he send Barnaby back?”

“It can’t go both ways with someone who has already travelled from one world to another.”

What?

“He can’t just send Inspector Barnaby back. Clyde has to stop eating the toast and once it’s out of his system, Barnaby will just naturally revert back to this world.”

It was too complicated for someone with a concussion.

“How long will that take?”

“Depends on Clyde’s bowels.”

“How about, you go look for the door and go back that way, then you can send inspector Barnaby back.”

“The way you look, I think I should stay right here,” said Agnes.

Jones conceded the point. Maybe Agnes was right.

“Is she dead?”

Jones looked toward Elizabeth Kensington. Her eyes were open, her death immediate.

“Yeah.”

“Michelin star chef . . .”

“Thank you, Agnes,” said Jones. “She was going to kill me.”

“You didn’t put up much of a fight.”

“Concussion.” Why did he have to keep making excuses?

“Some toast might help.”

Jones slumped forward . . .

.  
.  
.

Dressed down in a pair of jeans and a woolly jumper, Jones sat at the kitchen counter of Barnaby’s home, a plate of buttered toast in front of him; Barnaby’s idea of a joke, the toast meant to cheer up not sour his detective sergeant’s mood.

Barnaby stood on the other side of the counter, cup of tea in hand, watching Jones.

Conversation needed, the silence between them too awkward, Jones uncomfortable, a remembered memory of not feeling welcomed within the Barnaby home eating away at his insides. Any minute now, tired of the company, Jones expected his boss to hustle him out of the front door.

“Must have been hell staying over there for so long,” said Jones.

Barnaby shrugged, sipped at his tea. “Fourteen hours in their world and only one hour in this one. Almost like jet lag.” 

Barnaby had returned safely, after fourteen hours had passed in the other world; Clyde had agreed that if he had eaten brown bread instead of white, his bowels probably would have worked at a more reliable speed, returning Barnaby to his own world much sooner. They weren’t going to complain, only one hour passing in this world. Quick for Jones, a slow burn for Barnaby.

“Still hard to believe it wasn’t a dream.”

Barnaby nodded. They fell silent.

Beside Jones’s stool, Sykes chuffed, a small cough, a dog’s polite hint that he wanted something to eat. Obliging the request, Jones picked up a piece of toast and dropped it on the floor, Sykes grateful; at least someone was.

“How’s your head?”

Gaze on the dog at his feet, Jones said, “Sore.”

Barnaby shifted his stance, his embarrassment obvious. “Sarah’s insistent that you stay the night. Concussion and all that.”

Of course she did.

“No thank you, sir.” He wasn’t going to stay where he wasn’t wanted.

“I’m insistent that you stay the night.”

Jones looked up. Barnaby stared back at him, more confident.

A moment to think about it. His boss wouldn’t be insistent if he didn’t want his sergeant sleeping in the guest room. Giving in, too tired to put up much of an argument, Jones nodded in agreement, grimacing when the pain spiked as a result. “Fourteen hours with Clyde. What was that like?”

Barnaby looked away. “Different.”

“I don’t think Agnes is going to get over taking a life.”

“No but I’ll always be grateful that he did.”

Jones couldn’t read the look on Barnaby’s face, an expression he wasn’t familiar with. He looked away, back down at Sykes, the dog still looking eager for more food. How can something so small eat so much.

“It would have been a mess if she lived,” said Jones.

Another sip of tea. “How’s that?”

“We couldn’t put her on trial for murder. She doesn’t exist here. They couldn’t put her on trial for murder because they wouldn’t know what the hell they were doing.”

“No, they wouldn’t.”

“How did you explain the body . . . the . . .”

“I didn’t. They’re still trying to identify her.”

“They won’t.”

“No, and I’m not going to tell them she comes from another world.”

“She killed Meredith and Hester because they led a lonely life.”

“People have killed for a lot less.”

“Yeah,” said Jones, looking away, gaze staring through the window into the back yard. Grass lush, a lonely pigeon made its way across the lawn searching for food.

“What’s wrong?”

“Am I going to end up like Meredith and Hester?”

“Dead?”

Jones looked back at Barnaby, not sure, if he should reveal what was troubling him, unable to think of much else. Decided to take the chance. “Alone.”

“You’re not alone, Jones.”

“Not far from it. There’s every chance that I can end up like them.”

“You don’t own a bike . . . do you?”

“No.”

“There you go then.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better, sir.”

“No,” said Barnaby. He put his cup of tea on the counter, leaned forward, elbows supporting his weight. “You’ve got your Gran, other relatives. I’m sure you have friends. And you have us.”

Jones frowned. “Us?”

“Sarah, Sykes . . . me.”

That nearly knocked him off his feet, so often the impression given was that Barnaby wasn’t particularly too keen on him, suffering through Jones’s personality traits, not always suffering in silence. He didn’t know how to answer that. Stayed silent as he tried to accept the offer of friendship.

Minutes passed, Jones still feeling uncomfortable. 

“She looked different in this world,” said Jones. “I still can’t remember where I’d seen her before.”

“Does it matter?”

Maybe not. 

Jones looked down at the plate of toast, released a long, deep sigh of emotion.

“Ben, look at me.”

At the use of his first name, Jones looked up.

“You have a concussion. It increases your emotions. It can cause you to feel depressed. That’s what’s happening here. That’s all it is. Give yourself a few days, you’ll feel better about things.”

Jones nodded, accepting the words. Barnaby did have a degree in Psychology.

“You were right, Jones,” said Barnaby.

“Right about what, sir.”

“About Gary Potter being the victim. About someone else killing him and putting the blame on Potter. The note. You were right about all of it.”

It didn’t make him feel any better.

“Do you think they’ll do it again?”

Barnaby stood up, took his cup in hand. Another sip. “Think who will do what?”

“Clyde and Agnes. Do you think they’ll pull us back into their world?”

“God, I hope not. Bad enough the first time.”

Jones smiled. “I’m thinking about getting rid of my toaster.”

 

The End.


End file.
